


The Notting Hill Bookshop

by Persiflage



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Notting Hill Fusion, Background Meldrew, Bisexual Daisy Johnson, Bisexual Phil Coulson, Crossdressing, Drunk Driving, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gardens, Kissing, POV Phil Coulson, Previous Coulson/Audrey Nathan, Previous Lincoln/Daisy, Semi-Public Sex, background Trip/Simmons, background mackelena, bookshops, not Lincoln friendly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 00:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12544660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage
Summary: AU: Coulson's a bookshop owner and Daisy's a singer-actor. They meet and fall for each other instantly.





	The Notting Hill Bookshop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts).



> I honestly have no idea what put this particular fusion into my head - the _Notting Hill_ movie tends to annoy me because William's such a dick to Anna about the nude photos, but once the idea was in my head, I had to write it.
> 
> It's set in the early 90s before mobile phones and the internet were a ubiquitous part of our lives.

“Morning boss.” Trip’s cheery greeting as Phil Coulson arrives at work on the morning that will change his life forever makes him smile, even though he’s dreading doing the accounts today.

“Morning Antoine,” he says as walks through to his little cubbyhole – it’s not large enough to call it an office, but it’s got a desk, a chair, a telephone, and a PC. It’s where he sits to do the paperwork: accounts, inventory, and the ordering of new stock. 

“I’m going out to get a coffee, do you want one?” Trip asks.

“Sure.” Coulson digs into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and hands over some money.

“The usual?” Trip smirks. “Or can I tempt you into something exotic today?”

Coulson laughs and shakes his head. “The usual,” he tells him. “And don’t spend too long flirting with Jemma.”

“Me?” Trip’s faux air of innocence makes Coulson laugh again, then he waves the younger man off, and Trip goes out, trailing laughter in his wake.

Coulson shakes his head, then slips off his jacket before rolling up his sleeves and settling down at his desk. He’s in the middle of answering a letter of enquiry about a specific set of volumes when the bell above the door dings, and he gets to his feet, his pen still between his teeth, and moves into the main body of the shop where he sees a young woman in jeans and a plaid button-down moving to look at one of the shelves. He frowns, half sure he recognises her from somewhere, but not entirely certain of her identity. She’s got long dark hair that hangs loosely to her shoulders, and as he looks she pushes a pair of dark glasses up off her face and onto her forehead.

“Can I help at all?” he asks, moving nearer to her position.

She leans around the end of the shelf and smiles at him, and he swallows because he’s now certain of her identity: it’s the singer-turned-actor Daisy Johnson, the new rising star and darling of Hollywood. He forces himself to stay calm and not start gushing at her because he’s sure she’d just be embarrassed at having a middle-aged guy fanboying her.

“I’m okay for the moment, thanks,” she tells him, and he nods, then moves back to the counter where he briefly goes through the books that Trip’s arranged there.

He’s wondering whether he dares to try to start a conversation with her when she comes around the free-standing shelves and asks, “Have you got anything on the Opium Wars?”

“Sure,” he says coming out from behind the counter, and beckoning to her. “All the books on Britain’s Colonial past are over here.”

She follows him, and he resists the urge to turn around and look at her because he knows he’d end up tripping over something, possibly his own feet. “You sound like you don’t approve of that Colonial past,” she observes, and he wonders if he’s imagining the amusement tinging her voice.

“It’s shameful,” he says firmly as they arrive at the right section of shelves. “And the Opium Wars are especially disgraceful.”

She gives him a dazzling smile, and he has to swallow down the urge to start babbling embarrassingly about how much he hates what the British did. “Thanks for your help,” she says, and he nods.

“Any time,” he assures her, then forces himself to leave her to her browsing.

He’s been fiddling about at the counter for about five minutes when she approaches with two books in her hand. “You found what you wanted, then?” he says, then winces as he realises how inane that sounds.

She chuckles softly. “I did, thank you. You’ve got a great stock here. If I didn’t have to worry about my luggage allowance when I fly back home, I’d buy more.”

“We do ship internationally,” he says immediately, then bites his bottom lip, wondering if that’s too forward.

She grins. “Yeah, but then I’d miss out on the chance to actually browse and explore what’s on your shelves,” she points out. “I’ll definitely come here again next time I’m in London.”

Coulson hopes he’s not blushing, but fears he is as he takes the books from her and goes through the process of scanning the barcodes, then bagging them before he accepts her money.

“Enjoy your stay,” he tells her as he hands over the change, then the bag. “And, uh, enjoy the books.” 

“I’m sure I will, thank you.”

He nods, and she goes out, and he sits down abruptly on the stool behind the counter, realising that he’s shaking a bit – it’s a bit embarrassing to realise that he’s reacting so strongly to meeting Daisy Johnson in person. 

Trip comes in a few moments later, and his ready smile fades a bit at the sight of his boss. Coulson’s not sure what his face is doing, but he imagines he looks a bit shell-shocked – he certainly feels it. “You okay, Phil?” he asks anxiously as he comes up to the counter bearing their two coffees.

“Yeah,” Coulson says, and reaches out for the paper cup that Trip’s holding towards him.

“You sure? You kinda look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Oh. No, she was very real,” he mutters, and Trip’s eyes go wide. 

“She?” he asks carefully. “Not – “

“No,” Coulson says hastily. “Not Audrey.” His ex-wife isn’t likely to show up in his life again, thank goodness.

“Who, then?” Trip asks, obviously curious to know who could’ve knocked Coulson for six.

“A stunning young singer-turned-actor,” he says, then swallows a mouthful of coffee.

Trip’s eyes go wide. “Daisy Johnson?” he asks. “Daisy Johnson was here?” When Coulson nods, he shakes his own head. “And I missed her? Damn.”

Coulson chuckles weakly. “Sorry about that,” he says, meaning it – he knows Trip’s been a fan of Daisy’s for some time, certainly longer than Coulson, who only became aware of the young woman when she took Hollywood by storm with her appearance in a minor role in a musical film version of Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_. 

“Next time, you go for the coffee,” Trip jokes, and Coulson laughs properly.

“Deal,” he agrees. “I’d better get on with those accounts.”

Trip nods, and Coulson takes his coffee and heads back to his cubbyhole. 

About an hour later, he finishes the accounts to find their recent sales drive has been more successful than he’d either hoped or realised, and he gets to his feet, stretches, then moves into the main part of the shop.

“Coffee?” he asks Trip.

The younger man gets to his feet, but Coulson waves him back. “I said I’d go next time.”

Trip raises an eyebrow. “You were serious?”

“I was,” he agrees.

“Can I get an orange juice, instead of another coffee?” Trip asks.

“Of course.” Coulson checks his wallet’s in his pocket, then heads out to the coffeeshop.

He’s on his way back when he walks around a corner and slap into someone coming the other way. The paper cup of orange juice doesn’t survive the impact of their two bodies, and Coulson bites back a yelp of shock as the cold liquid soaks his shirt front. Then he notices whom he’s walked into, and is appalled.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he says, and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he attempts to mop the orange juice from the white halter top Daisy Johnson’s wearing under the plaid button-down shirt that’s hanging open now that the weather’s warmed up.

“Get your hands off me,” she snarls, then she recognises him. “You?” 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “Look, I live nearby, why don’t you come and get changed out of your shirt. I’ve got soap and water, and uh –“ He flounders a bit at the look of amusement she’s aiming at him.

“Where is your place?” she asks.

He points across the street. “See that blue door?” She nods. “That’s me.”

“Very well. Lay on McDuff.”

He can’t quite contain a grin at that, but he wrestles his face into a more appropriate expression, then leads the way across the street and unlocking his front door, ushers her into his home.

“Sorry about the mess,” he mutters, embarrassed at the realisation that his housemate, Lance Hunter, has done his usual worse-than-useless job of tidying up after himself.

He leads her through to the kitchen, then looks around vaguely. “Um, bathroom’s upstairs,” he says, realising he’s blushing a bit.

“That seems to be the usual arrangement,” Daisy says, clearly amused. 

His blush deepens, and he directs her upstairs, then sets about tidying up the kitchen at least while she goes to change out of her juice-soaked top. When she returns a bit later, now wearing a black tank top that shows off her arms and shoulders, which are far more powerful than he’d have expected, she’s carrying her shirt and halter top.

“I should probably soak those,” he says. 

“Don’t bother,” she tells him. “I’ll give it to Housekeeping at my hotel.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. He fishes his wallet from his back pocket. “At least let me give you something towards the cost of getting them cleaned.”

She shakes her head. “Keep your money, Mr Coulson.”

“Phil,” he says automatically, then blushes again.

She laughs softly, and he feels himself relaxing at the sound. “You’re kinda adorable when you blush,” she tells him, which, of course, just embarrasses him even more.

“Thanks. I think.” 

“I like adorable,” she tells him, and he ducks his head a moment. 

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Mmhmm.” She stuffs her shirt and top into a carrier bag from Harrods, then looks at him.

“Tea?” he asks, and that makes her laugh again.

“You Brits and your tea,” she teases.

“I also have coffee,” he tells her. “Or something cold.”

“Not orange juice,” she tells him, and he puts his hands over his face. 

He’s startled when she wraps her hands around his wrists and draws his hands away from his face, and absolutely floored when she leans in and kisses him, her hands still holding his wrists.

The kiss starts off relatively innocuous – almost chaste – but it doesn’t remain that way when her arms wrap around his body. He finds himself embracing her without making a conscious decision to do so, and she presses her body hard against his, pushing him back against the wall behind him. 

When she finally releases his mouth, they’re both breathing heavily, and he’s embarrassed to realise that he’s rock hard. She drags the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip, then she leans in and kisses him again, more briefly.

“Thanks for your time and help,” she murmurs against his mouth.

“Y-you, you’re welcome,” he gets out, somehow.

She steps back, and he shivers when she – accidentally, he thinks – brushes the back of her hand against his straining cock. “I’ll see myself out,” she tells him, then walks away. 

He’s still leaning back against the wall, his heart thumping painfully in his chest, when she closes the front door behind her.

“Wow,” he whispers. He closes his eyes and takes several deep, steadying breaths before peeling himself off the wall and making his way, awkwardly because he’s still incredibly aroused, upstairs to strip off his shirt, then take a shower because the orange juice has easily penetrated the thin fabric of his shirt, leaving his skin slightly sticky.

He masturbates in the shower, feeling guilty for doing so, but desperately needing relief from his embarrassingly aroused state. He can’t help thinking about how good it felt to be kissed by Daisy, and he tries (and fails) not to imagine what it would be like to have her mouth on his swollen shaft. Then he thinks about where he’d like to put his mouth on her body, and he cries out involuntarily as he climaxes hard.

Once he’s dressed and changed, he heads back to the coffee shop for Trip’s orange juice, a coffee for himself, and muffins for them both, then he walks on to work. His assistant’s finishing up serving a customer as Coulson arrives, and as soon as the older woman has gone, Coulson hands over the muffin and orange juice.

“Have you changed your shirt?” Trip asks.

“Yeah. Had a bit of a contretemps with your juice – walked into someone and ended up wearing it.”

“Oh man,” mutters Trip, and Coulson sees he’s fighting against a smirk. 

“Yeah. It – uh – it was Daisy Johnson I walked into,” he admits. He’s not going to mention the kissing, though. That’s strictly private.

“Oh man,” moans Trip. “Why d’you have all the luck?”

“I thought Jemma Simmons was your best girl?” Coulson teases.

“She is,” he says immediately. “But – uh – well, you know, Daisy Johnson’s gorgeous AND talented.”

“Mmhmm.” Coulson’s deliberately non-committal in his response, and he leaves Trip to it as an older woman comes through the door, and heads to his cubbyhole to answer some more enquiries about various books he has in stock.

DJ-PC-DJ-PC-DJ

Three days later Coulson’s sitting on the roof of his building in the tiny garden he’s carefully cultivated, when his housemate comes up carrying a bowl of something, a spoon in his mouth and a lit cigarette dangling from his left hand, which is also holding the bowl. Coulson thinks he’ll never understand how anyone can eat and smoke at the same time. Actually, he’ll never understand how anyone can smoke, but that’s a whole separate argument.

“Forgot to tell you,” he says, once he’s slumped onto the sun lounger and removed the spoon from his mouth. “Some bird called Daisy rang you.”

“When?” asks Coulson, too startled to scold Hunter for calling Daisy a ‘bird’.

Hunter shrugs. “Couple of days ago, I think it was.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“I said I forgot.”

Coulson rolls his eyes. “Did she leave her number?”

“Nah. Just said she was staying at the Ritz. Said you should ask for – “ He scoops up a spoonful of whatever’s in the bowl – Coulson thinks it might be yoghurt, but it could just as easily be mayonnaise, knowing Hunter – and stuffs it in his mouth.

“Ask for who?” prompts Coulson, trying to hide his impatience.

Hunter sucks the spoon clean, making a disgusting noise. “Dunno.” He frowns in concentration, then shrugs. “Cartoon character, I think. Animal one.”

Coulson gets to his feet, shaking his head. “There are times when you’re worse than useless,” he points out, then heads downstairs to the phone.

After ten fraught minutes with the concierge at the Ritz, he finally establishes that there’s a Miss Bambi staying at the hotel, and after a breathless few moments, a voice says, “Hello.”

“Hello Daisy. It’s Phil – Phil Coulson.”

“You clearly like playing it cool,” she says, and he hopes that’s not irritation in her voice.

“I promise you, I’ve never played anything cool in my life. My flatmate – who I’ll stab to death later – never gave me your message until now.”

“Maybe you should invest in an answering machine?” she suggests, and Coulson laughs weakly.

“I think I should.”

“I called you because I wondered if you’d like to come around,” she says. 

He feels as if his heart has lodged itself in his throat at her words, and he has to swallow hard before answering. “I’d like that very much,” he assures her. “Maybe I could come for tea?”

She chuckles, and he feels himself relaxing slightly. “Yeah, okay. Four o’clock sound okay? I’ve got a thing before that, but it should be over before four.”

“That sounds great,” he says quickly. 

“Good. I’m in the Trafalgar Suite.”

“Okay, I’ll be there at 4pm.”

“I look forward to it.” She sounds like she means that sincerely and he is smiling as he hangs up.

He hurries upstairs to his room, and picks out some clean clothes to wear, then he heads into the bathroom to grab a shower. He has no idea why Daisy wants to see him again, especially after he threw orange juice over her – but he isn’t going to turn down the opportunity to see her again when it’s offered.

An hour later he gets off the bus across the street from the Ritz, then makes his way inside and takes the lift up several floors. He’s a bit surprised when the younger blond man who’d followed him into the lift then follows him down the corridor and stops outside the door of the Trafalgar Suite with him. He knocks, and a tall blonde-haired woman in her mid-thirties opens the door, smiles, then pushes something into his hand. Coulson glances down, and realises it’s a glossy poster featuring Daisy’s face – it’s for her newest film.

“Oh, but – “ he begins, but gets no chance to explain that he’s not here for whatever press event is unfolding before the woman, whom he supposes is Daisy’s publicist, is walking away again.

The journalist, from _Time Out_ apparently, who’d come up in the lift with him gives him a smile, then moves into the crowded suite, and Coulson gazes around a little helplessly until he sees the publicist across the room.

“Excuse me,” he says as he taps lightly on her shoulder.

The woman spins around very fast, startling Coulson into taking a step backwards. “Sorry,” he says automatically. “I believe Ms Johnson is expecting me,” he explains. “Phil Coulson.”

“Of which publication?” asks the woman.

Coulson goes blank, then says the first thing that comes to mind when his darting glance lands on the stack of magazines on a nearby coffee table. “ _Horse and Hound_.”

She nods. “Give me a minute Mr Coulson.” She moves away briskly, and Coulson retreats to a spot near the door through which the woman disappeared.

To his relief she returns quickly and ushers him down a corridor and into another room. “Mr Coulson of _Horse and Hound_ ,” she announces, then thankfully closes the door behind him, leaving him alone with Daisy, who looks amazing in a black 2-piece trouser suit, white button-down shirt, and a deep red tie.

He swallows, then gives her a slightly shaky smile. “Hi.”

“ _Horse and Hound_?” she asks, clearly amused.

“First thing that came into my head when she put me on the spot,” he confesses, and she laughs.

“Sit down,” she says, and gestures at a chair facing the sofa on which she settles herself. “I’m sorry about the madness out there. I’m afraid I badly underestimated how long this PR circus would last. It’s what comes of being new to the business, I guess.”

He shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he assures her.

“I just sort of wanted to apologise for the kissing thing the other day. I seriously don’t know what came over me, and I just wanted to make sure that you were fine about it.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You could’ve asked me that on the telephone,” he observes. He’s surprised when she blushes.

“I could’ve,” she agrees. “But then I wouldn’t have seen you again.”

He swallows, hardly able to believe his ears. “You wanted to see me again?” he asks.

She nods, and opens her mouth to speak again, but the door behind him opens again, and a dark-haired woman looks in. “Everything okay?” she asks, glancing from Daisy’s flushed face to Coulson’s disbelieving one.

“Fine, thanks Maria,” Daisy says, and the woman, Maria, nods.

“Three more minutes, then, Mr Coulson,” Maria says.

Coulson nods, feeling disappointed that his time with Daisy will be cut so short, but knowing he’s no right to her time. 

Maria goes out, but then the blonde woman comes in, and he feels his heart sink. Daisy pulls a wry face at him, then turns to the blonde. 

“Bobbi, any chance I could get some tea, please?”

“Of course.”

To Daisy’s obvious disappointment, Bobbi doesn’t leave the room, she simply moves into the far corner and picks up the phone there. Daisy gives Coulson a look, eyebrows raised, and he remembers he’s supposed to be interviewing her, so he awkwardly asks some vague questions, feeling a bit peeved when he spots the way Daisy’s eyes are dancing with mirth.

Bobbi goes out, again, and Coulson sighs loudly, slumping back in his chair, and Daisy chuckles. 

“This is the sort of thing that happens in dreams,” he tells her, and she lifts an eyebrow again. “Good dreams, obviously.” She smirks, and emboldened, he takes a breath then tells her, “It’s a dream, in fact, to see you again.”

“What happens next in the dream?” she asks.

“Well, I change my personality, because you can do that in dreams – “ She laughs softly. “then I’d walk over and kiss the girl.” 

“Yeah?” She smiles at him, one eyebrow raised again, obviously challenging him, and after a moment he half gets to his feet, but then the door opens yet again, and he settles back down on the chair. 

Daisy puts a hand over her mouth, clearly doing her best to hold back laughter, and he can’t help rolling his eyes at her reaction.

Bobbi sets down the tea tray she’s just carried in, and Coulson notes that there’s only one cup and saucer on it. Clearly, he’s not expected to stay for tea. He bites back his disappointment, then gets to his feet, offers a courteous farewell, then makes his way back to the main lounge of the suite.

He’s just reached the door when Bobbi catches him and gives him an envelope. He takes it automatically, then steps outside before opening it. There’s a note on hotel stationery inside:

_How about dinner? Meet you in the lobby 7pm. If you can’t make it, let the concierge know. Daisy._

He feels a giddy rush of excitement and strides down the corridor towards the lift, then he remembers that he already has dinner plans for tonight: his friends Melinda and Andrew are celebrating their wedding anniversary. He swears softly under his breath, stops walking, then pulls a pen from his inside jacket pocket and scribbles a note below Daisy’s, explaining and asking if she’d like to have dinner with his friends. It’s a bit cheeky, he knows, but she seems pretty informal for a Hollywood star, so maybe she’ll say yes. He reseals the envelope and when he gets downstairs, he leaves it with the concierge to be sent back up to Daisy’s suite, before he heads for home.

When he walks through his front door the phone’s ringing, and Coulson almost trips up in his haste to reach it. To his surprise, and relief, it’s the concierge from the Ritz calling to let him know that Ms Bambi is happy to accept his invitation. Coulson thanks the man, then grits his teeth and calls Andrew and Melinda.

“Hello Andrew, Phil here. Would it be okay if I bring a date with me tonight?”

“A date?” asks Andrew, sounding immensely surprised – and well he might, Coulson supposes, given how lacklustre his love life’s been since his divorce from Audrey Nathan several years ago.

“A date,” Coulson confirms.

“By all means bring a date, Phil.” Coulson hears Melinda’s voice in the background, and then Andrew asks, “What’s she like?”

Coulson rolls his eyes. “Very nice,” he says. “And that’s all you’re getting.”

Andrew chuckles. “All right, Phil, we’ll see you tonight – and your _date_.” He says the last word with great emphasis and Coulson rolls his eyes, says goodbye, then heads into his bedroom. He tells himself that taking Daisy to have dinner with his best friends isn’t remotely significant, but he knows he’s lying to himself, and he knows very well that they’ll consider it significant, even though there’s nothing going on between him and Daisy.

DJ-PC-DJ-PC-DJ

The evening goes swimmingly, better than Coulson had dared to hope, but Daisy gets on very well with Melinda and Andrew, and Mack and Elena, who are the other guests for the evening, and although Coulson comes in for a fair amount of teasing about bringing Daisy, it’s clear to him that she fits into the group really easily. He can’t help wondering at that easiness – whether it’s inherent in Daisy or something else: he knows that he clicked with her instantly, feeling that they’d known each other for years or that they’d always been destined to meet. It’s a little weird as he doesn’t really believe in fate or destiny, but he cannot deny the instant rapport he’d felt with her.

They walk back through the streets, chatting quietly, and when Coulson pauses to tie up his shoe lace, Daisy looks around, then asks, “What’s that?”

He gets up, then looks to his left. “Communal garden,” he tells her. “There are quite a few of them dotted about London.”

“Nice. Shall we?” She gestures at the gate. 

He gives her a rueful look. “They’re private – residents’ only.”

“And you abide by rules like that?” she asks, smirking at him as she teases him, and he feels an unfamiliar boldness.

“Certainly not,” he asserts, and moves to the wall alongside the wrought-iron gate. He stretches up and grasps the top of the wall, then lifts his leg and tries to find a foothold. His foot slides uselessly against the brickwork, and he drops back.

“Whoopsadaisy.”

Daisy laughs delightedly. “What did you just say?”

He frowns at her in confusion. “Nothing,” he says.

She laughs again. “No, you did.” 

He frowns, shakes his head, then makes a second attempt to scramble over the wall, with precisely the same lack of success.

“Whoopsadaisy.”

“You said it again,” Daisy says, laughing again.

“Said what?” he asks, baffled.

“’Whoopsadaisy’,” she tells him.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You definitely did. I heard you. Twice.”

“That’s absurd.” He can feel a bit of panic creeping in, now. “No one has said ‘whoopsadaisy’ since, well do they – I mean, not unless – “

“There’s no unless,” Daisy informs him, still giggling. “No one has said ‘Whoopsadaisy’ for fifty years and even then, it was only little girls with blonde ringlets.” She stares at him. “Which you are clearly not.”

He laughs helplessly. “It’s a disease I’ve got,” he tells her with great solemnity once he’s composed himself. “It’s a clinical thing. I’m taking the tablets and having regular injections – it should stop soon.”

Daisy laughs, doubling over and wheezing breathlessly. “You’re hopeless,” she says, and straightening up, she grabs his arm, then leans in and kisses him briefly before approaching the wall. She’s up and over in moments, calling, “Come on then, Phil. You have to see this.”

He shakes his head, embarrassed and impressed in equal measure, then tackles the wall for a third time, and somehow, makes it over without injuring himself or tearing his jeans. 

“Now what do I have to see?” he asks, approaching her and glancing around the garden which, while lovely, is nothing extraordinary.

“This,” she murmurs as she reaches up and grasps the back of his neck, then pulls his head down and kisses him properly. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss her back, wrapping his arms around her body and pulling it tight against his own as their tongues tangle together and explore each other’s mouths. He suspects it’s the best kiss he’s ever had.

“I’ve never been kissed in the moonlight before,” he tells her when they finally pull apart, both breathing raggedly.

“Oh Phil,” she murmurs, “you haven’t lived.” She draws him back for a second kiss, and they somehow end up lying on the grass, legs tangled together, mouths hungry and desperate.

When she pulls her mouth free the second time, she stares down at him – her body straddling his and easily pinning him to the ground. “You’re something else,” she tells him in a quiet voice. She sounds awed, he thinks.

“As are you,” he tells her, a little too earnestly perhaps. 

They pick themselves up from the grass and Coulson dusts her down, ensuring that there are no grass stains, and no bits of grass or twig or anything else on the red checked dress she’s wearing with a pair of cowboy boots.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, and she gives him a half smile, then grabs his hand and laces their fingers together before leading the way across the park.

They end up sitting on a bench, holding hands as they look out over the moonlit garden. “You’re not like other men,” Daisy says after a bit.

He snorts. “Well, I was raised by three women. I daresay that’s made a difference.”

“Your father – “ she begins tentatively.

“Died when I was 9. Cancer. My mother brought me up with the help of my two grandmothers. They were incredible women: tough, no-nonsense ladies who’d both survived the Second World War. My maternal grandmother fled Europe with her Jewish family ahead of the Nazi purges. My paternal grandmother survived London during the Blitz, working as an ARP Warden.” After a pause, during which she squeezes his hand repeatedly, he continues, “I was labelled ‘sensitive’ as a child, and mocked for being ‘girly’ until I took up sport when I changed schools at the age of 11. I always preferred reading to playing sport, but the latter helped me avoid being bullied for the former. Stupid societal mores.”

She moves to sit on his lap and kisses him emphatically for some time, and he feels himself growing embarrassingly hard. Daisy doesn’t seem to mind, and he dares to put his hands on her thighs beneath her dress. He digs his thumbs into her flesh and she rocks over him, which just makes him harder.

Eventually, though, she pulls back, and even in the moonlight, he can see her face is flushed. “I wish – “ he begins.

“I know,” she says. “But better not.”

He swallows, hoping she doesn’t realise he’s disappointed to hear those words. “Okay,” he whispers.

“I don’t fuck on first dates,” she tells him, and he gazes at her wide-eyed, startled by the implications of her words.

She slides off his lap and resumes her position beside him, her hand finding his again. He realises that he’s never considered holding hands to be erotic before, but it definitely feels erotic when it’s Daisy’s hand in his.

She starts talking quietly, telling him about her own childhood – how she’s been an orphan since she was a year old; about being raised by nuns at a Catholic orphanage; about how she’d been in and out of foster homes until the age of 16 when she’d run away and not looked back. Then the temporary job in a bar at the age of 17 (“I lied and said I was 18”), which was when she’d been ‘discovered’ by an agent who’d heard her sing, and how she’d released her first album at the age of 18.

“You’ve got an amazing voice,” he tells her. “Do you miss singing? Or do you prefer acting?”

She shrugs. “Acting’s fun, and I’ve gotten to meet some amazing people – including some of my acting heroes – but singing is very satisfying.”

They sit and talk for an hour until it starts to feel chilly, then Coulson flags down a cab and sees Daisy back to her hotel. 

“This evening was really great,” she tells him as they stand on the pavement outside the Ritz. 

“I’m glad you had a good time,” he tells her.

“I’m gonna be tied up with more of the press circus for the next day or two, but I’d like to – you know – see you again, if that’s okay?”

He feels a bit floored by the look in her eyes – as if she doesn’t dare hope he’ll say yes. “I’d like that very much,” he says.

She smiles, then clasps his shoulder, leans in, and kisses him full on the mouth. “I’ll call you,” she says once she releases him.

“I look forward to it.” 

She smiles, then walks away, and after a giddy moment of staring after her, Coulson turns around and makes an effort to focus on getting home.

DJ-PC-DJ-PC-DJ

Two evenings later, after seeing the latest – instantly forgettable, as far as Coulson’s concerned – blockbuster movie with Daisy, they have dinner in public for the first time. He suspects Daisy’s more nervous about it than she’s letting on – she seems to have the knack for faking self-confidence, but somehow he seems to be able to see through it.

They talk about food and cooking, with Coulson confessing his two grandmothers taught him to cook as his mother was too busy working to keep a roof over their heads. Daisy admits that she’s never really learned to cook as she rarely stayed with a foster family long enough to learn. 

“I often wish I’d learned,” she says, sounding wistful.

“It’s not too late,” he points out. “You’re only 25. And you could probably afford to take private instruction from a top chef.”

She pulls a face, and he can’t help chuckling at her obvious dislike of that idea. She opens her mouth to speak, but pauses when a male voice from around the corner behind them speaks a little more loudly than he had previously been speaking:

“No, no, no! Give me Daisy Johnson any day!” exclaims the voice.

Coulson raises his eyebrows at her and she half smirks in response.

“I didn’t really like that last film of hers,” another man states. “Fell asleep the moment the lights went down.”

Daisy rolls her eyes.

“Don’t really care what the films are like,” the first man says. “Any film with her in it’s fine by me.”

“A ringing endorsement,” Coulson says sotto-voce, and Daisy smirks again.

“I reckon Daisy’d be up for it with anyone man enough to give it to her,” says the first man. “You know what Asian women are like – they’ll let you do anything to them if you show ‘em who’s boss.”

“I thought she was American?” asks the second man as Coulson scowls and starts to get to his feet. 

Daisy grabs his wrist and squeezes, shaking her head at him.

“She’s half and half,” the first man asserts. “Asian enough, though, to enjoy it if you just flipped her over and started again.”

“That’s enough,” Coulson says angrily, his voice low.

Daisy doesn’t try to stop him this time, and he gets to his feet and walks around the corner.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he begins, aware that this is a feeble opening.

“What d’you want?” asks a large blond man, the one who’d been discussing Daisy’s half-Asian heritage, Coulson realises as he recognises the voice.

“I overheard your conversation,” he says. “I imagine almost everyone in here did. I just wanted to point out that the woman you’re discussing in such crude terms is a real person, and I think she deserves a bit more consideration than you’re showing her. She doesn’t deserve to have jerks like you drooling over her – “

The blond man stands up. “Fuck off,” he says aggressively, waving his steak knife aggressively. “What are you, her dad?”

Coulson backs up, well aware that he’s causing a scene. Daisy appears beside him, her hand wrapping around his forearm and she tugs on it until he moves.

“I’m sorry,” he says as they start to walk away.

“No, that’s fine,” she says. “I love that you tried. Time was, I’d have done the same thing.” She stops walking, looks up at him, then says, “Give me a second.”

She turns and walks back towards the table, and Coulson follows, feeling as if his heart’s lodged in his throat.

“Hi,” she says brightly as the four men look up when she comes to a halt by their table.

“Oh my god,” says the blond man, half getting to his feet.

“I’m sorry about my friend,” Daisy says. “He’s very sensitive.”

“No, look, I’m sorry – “ starts the blond man.

She shakes her head. “Please. Let’s leave it there. I’m sure you meant no harm, and it was just friendly banter.” The blond man begins to nod vigorously. “And I’m sure you’ve all got dicks the size of peanuts. Which are a perfect match for the size of your brains. Enjoy your meal.”

The four men are spluttering with what Coulson diagnoses as a combination of disbelief and outrage as Daisy turns and strolls away, sliding her arm through his as she comes alongside him.

Outside the restaurant, Daisy looks mortified. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she says. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, you were brilliant,” he assures her. “Much more effective than me.”

She shakes her head. “I’m reckless and stupid, and what am I doing with you?”

He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t either,” she says, then she leans in and kisses him, and he feels as if his whole body’s melting into jelly.

“I think you should come back to my room with me, Phil,” she whispers against his cheek when she finally ends the kiss.

“Is that wise?” he wonders. Part of him is kicking himself for asking, because this is Daisy Johnson and there’s no denying he’s been sexually attracted to her from the outset.

“Possibly not,” she concedes. “But I’ve never claimed to be wise. Come back with me? Please?”

He cannot possibly refuse, so he flags down a cab and they scramble in, then spend the seven and a half minute cab ride making out furiously like teenagers. When they stumble out at the Ritz, Coulson’s threatening to burst out of his pants, he’s so aroused.

“There’s a gents’ bathroom over there,” she tells him, and he can feel himself blushing, but he nods and starts towards it. 

“I’m going on up,” she tells him, and he nods again, then heads into the bathroom to purchase some condoms, feeling embarrassingly self-conscious about it even though there’s no one in sight.

He takes the lift, willing it to move faster, and trying not to feel too awkward about his semi-rampant erection, which he’s sure must be perfectly obvious to everyone, although there isn’t actually anyone around. 

He hurries down the corridor to Daisy’s room, fingering the box of condoms in his pocket. He feels like a teenager again, and wonders if it’s Daisy’s youth that’s making him feel younger, or if he’s just a foolish, middle-aged man.

Daisy opens the door as soon as he knocks, and he leans in to kiss her cheek, lifting his arms to embrace her, but she puts a hand on his chest, which stops him in his tracks.

“Daisy?” There’s something in her eyes, an expression he cannot identify, and he feels uneasy.

“You’ve got to go,” she says in a low voice, sounding agitated.

“What? Why?” 

“Because my ex-boyfriend, who won’t accept he’s an ex and whom I thought was in America, is here in my suite.”

“Your boyfriend?” he says stupidly.

“Ex,” she says emphatically. 

Before he can respond another, younger, male voice calls. “Who is it Daze?” Coulson stares as a younger man, blond, handsome, and obviously very fit, comes into view. He’s unbuttoning his shirt as he approaches, displaying a well-muscled chest.

“Uh, room service,” Coulson says after a brief, sidelong glance at Daisy, who’s clearly doing her best to put on a neutral expression while her back is to the young man.

“Thought you lot wore those penguin suits?” the young man says, his tone verging on offensive.

“We do,” Coulson agrees, “but I was about to go home when this call came, so as a favour to Ms Johnson, I came up.”

“Oh ‘as a favour’,” repeats the younger man. He turns to Daisy. “You always manage to twist them around your pinkie, don’t you? Especially the middle-aged ones.” He throws a smirking glance at Coulson. “No offence.”

“I’m sure,” Coulson says blandly.

“Lincoln – “ begins Daisy. She gets no further because he lets go of his unbuttoned shirt and grabs her shoulders, then pulls her in and kisses her in what Coulson regards as a possessive manner. He forces himself to remain in the doorway when Daisy directs a pleading look at him over Lincoln’s shoulder.

“While you’re here,” Lincoln says once he’s released Daisy. “How about sending up some cold water? Properly ice cold. Still, not sparkling.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Coulson says, noticing that Daisy’s surreptitiously wiping the back of her hand across her mouth behind Lincoln’s back.

“Of course, if it’s illegal to serve liquids below room temperature, you should just forget it, okay?”

“Ice cold still water,” Coulson repeats.

“Thanks. And uh – get rid of this lot, will ya?” He gestures at two empty plates on the coffee table, and an overflowing rubbish bin beside it.

“Sure,” Coulson says and moves into the room to grab the plates and bin.

“Don’t do that,” Daisy says in a low voice, then to Lincoln, more loudly, “I’m sure that’s not his job.”

Coulson shakes his head, scoops up the bin in his free hand, and heads to the door as Lincoln moves into the bedroom, calling over his shoulder as he goes, “Hey, watch what you eat tonight darling, okay? I don’t want people telling me how fat you’ve gotten.”

Daisy follows Coulson to the door. “I’m sorry – “ she begins.

“Don’t,” he says gently. “It was nice meeting you, Daisy.” He shifts the bin so that he can pull the door of the suite closed behind him as he goes out into the corridor, then heads to the lift, still burdened.

DJ-PC-DJ-PC-DJ

Several months pass and Coulson does his best not to think of Daisy more than once a day, instead concentrating on building up his bookshop’s business. He spends some time setting up a basic website, after teaching himself how to write the code for it from books. Andrew and Melinda tease him about his failed romance, but only for a little while once they realise that he had fallen for Daisy in a big way. They set him up with a handful of blind dates, all of which prove disastrous for various reasons, and he’s more than a little relieved when his friends finally give it up.

Then he’s walking past a newsstand one morning and sees the headlines splashed across the various newspapers, all reporting the very public breakup between ‘Hollywood darlings’ Daisy Johnson and Lincoln Campbell. Half reluctantly, he buys a paper and reads it once he’s settled at his desk in his cubbyhole at the bookshop. 

He’s appalled to learn that Lincoln had lost control of his car, in which Daisy was a passenger, and crashed it into a tree, nearly killing them both. As they were being cut free of the wreckage, Lincoln had lost his temper, screaming and shouting as he blamed Daisy for the crash, despite the fact that he’d been driving too fast. She’d told him, very firmly, that they were over, and the paramedics had been forced to sedate him to calm him down. After that she had disappeared from public view, and there’s much speculation about where she’s gone.

He closes the paper feeling sick: the idea that she might have been killed and so carelessly, frightens him, and he wishes he knew a way to contact her – although the newspaper report makes it clear that she’d survived with cuts and bruises, and a fracture in her left arm, he feels as if he can’t trust that she’s okay until he sees her. 

He’s still sitting there, trying to figure out a way of contacting Daisy when Trip appears, a look of barely-suppressed excitement lighting his face. “You’ve got a delivery,” he says.

Coulson frowns at him. “And you can’t deal with it?” he asks, a little irritated.

“Not this time, boss,” he says.

Coulson sighs, scrubs his hand over his face, then gets to his feet and moves out into the bookshop proper. He stares at the young woman with long blonde hair, big sunglasses, and a floppy-brimmed hat who’s standing in the middle of the aisle, and who smiles tentatively at him, then pulls the sunglasses off.

“Daisy?” he says disbelievingly.

“Phil.” She sort of sighs his name, as if seeing him is a relief, and he hurries forward, and touches her left shoulder, mindful of the fractured arm, which is resting in a sling. 

“It’s such a relief to see you,” he says quickly. “Are you okay? Do you want to sit down?”

She glances over at Trip as she asks, “Would it be okay if we went back to yours?”

Trip nods, smiling widely, and Coulson nods too. “I’ll make it up to you,” Coulson promises the younger man, and he shakes his head, then makes a shooing motion.

“Get gone,” he says.

Coulson escorts Daisy out of the shop, then along the street to his home. “We’re lucky that Hunter’s away for a few days,” he tells her. “Otherwise my housemate would undoubtedly ‘accidentally’ let it slip that you were here while he was down the pub.”

“Thank god,” she says fervently as he unlocks the door, then ushers her inside.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“Coffee, please,” she says, and sinks down onto one of the kitchen chairs, then watches as he makes them both a large mug of coffee. He digs around in the cupboard and pulls out a packet of chocolate cakes, which makes her raise an eyebrow at him.

“Comfort food,” he says, shrugging, as he opens the pack and puts some onto a plate. He sets the plate on a tray, along with their mugs of coffee, then carries the whole lot into the sitting room and they settle down, side by side, on the sofa.

“I should apologise,” she says as she carefully accepts the mug from him.

“What for?” he asks, confused.

“That night at the hotel,” she says, a dull flush staining her cheeks red. “Lincoln was obnoxious to you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says immediately. “I hadn’t given it another thought.”

“But – “

“Daisy,” he says firmly, “don’t take the blame for someone else’s bad behaviour.”

“You shouldn’t be so nice to me,” she says, sounding as if she might cry. 

He takes her mug from her and sets it on the tray on the coffee table again, then he carefully draws her into his arms. “You’ll just have to put up with it, I’m afraid,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “I’m always going to be monstrously nice to you.”

She half laughs, half sobs, and he rubs a hand up and down her back. He’s not surprised when he realises she’s properly sobbing onto his shoulder, and he simply holds her, making soothing noises until she’s all cried out. Then he fishes a neatly folded linen handkerchief from his trouser pocket and shakes it out before passing it to her.

“God, you’re a dork,” she says, giving him a watery smile.

“Mm. You like dorks, though.”

“I like you,” she says firmly, and after drying the tears on her cheeks, she leans in and kisses him. It’s soft, yet still passionate, and he can’t help kissing her back, even as he wonders if it’s wise.

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold,” he tells her once she releases his mouth.

“Bossy,” she says fondly.

“That a problem?” he asks, smirking just a little.

She shakes her head, then starts drinking the coffee. She eats two of the chocolate cakes, murmuring “I shouldn’t, really” before she starts on the second one – which he blandly ignores while eating a cake himself.

“What do you need?” he asks once she’s swallowed the last of her coffee.

“I just want to be here with you,” she says. “If you don’t mind.”

“I really don’t,” he assures her, and she gives him a brilliant smile.

“Thanks.”

He carries the tray into the kitchen, then gestures at his record player when he returns to the sitting room. She nods, so he turns it on, then sorts through his records until he finds one that he thinks will be relatively soothing. He puts the record on, turns the volume a bit lower, then returns to the sofa, and they’re soon lying cuddled up together along its length.

They spend most of the rest of the day like that: he makes them sandwiches for lunch, and orders in pizza for dinner, at her request because Daisy tells him she can’t remember the last time she had pizza.

They go to bed and Coulson’s almost appalled by the easy familiarity that seems to exist between them as they climb into his bed from opposite sides. Part of him can’t quite believe he’s about to share a bed with Daisy Johnson, but the rest of him is just happy he can be here for her in whatever capacity she wants.

He wakes up the next morning with his usual morning erection, but what isn’t usual is the body pressed firmly against his back, the lips mouthing hot kisses along his collarbone, or the hand that curls itself around the base of his swollen shaft.

He can’t quite help a moan escaping from his lips as the hand slides up the length of his rampant erection, then the mouth is on his ear, and his hips jerk involuntarily when Daisy nips at his earlobe. She thumbs the moisture from the head of his cock, and he groans as her thumb repeatedly circles his flesh.

“Fuck, Daisy,” he mutters.

“Yes,” she murmurs, and tugs at his shoulder so that he falls onto his back, then she shifts and straddles his thighs, his rock hard cock against her belly. “Condoms?” 

He reaches towards the bedside table, and she opens the drawer, pulls out the unopened packet he bought all those months ago in the bathroom at the Ritz, then she slips one out of the pack and he groans very loudly as she rolls the latex down his throbbing length. 

“Okay?” she asks, and he can only nod wordlessly, then she lifts herself up and together they guide his dick into her slick heat.

She moans more loudly than him when her hot sex engulfs his rigid member. He can feel her walls stretching to accommodate him, and he forces himself to hold still until she’s ready to move.

It’s the best first time sex with a new partner that Coulson’s ever experienced, and he’s almost overwhelmed by how emotionally connected to Daisy he feels. It’s so intense that it leaves him shaken and nearly in tears, but she seems to feel the same, judging by her slightly disjointed remarks in the immediate aftermath of their almost simultaneous climaxes.

They cuddle up together afterwards, one of Daisy’s legs virtually pinning him to the bed in a way that he finds charmingly possessive, and eventually they fall asleep again. 

They spend that Sunday lazily, lounging in bed until mid-morning before they finally get up to shower and eat. He’s not expecting her to join him in the shower, but Daisy climbs in with a very nonchalant manner, wrapping her arms around him from behind as she presses her body to his. Even more unexpected is when she begins stroking his cock until he’s fully aroused, then she turns him around and sinks to her knees in front of him, and he half chokes as she slides his length into her mouth and down her throat.

He has to lean back against the wall as she works him up to a climax, then swallows every last drop down before releasing his cock with a very satisfied smirk on her face.

“You’re gorgeous when you’re sated,” she says, and he shakes his head, then draws her up from the floor of the shower. They kiss for several minutes, then he insinuates a hand between her thighs and she moans loudly as he works two fingers into her slick heat, and proceeds to use them to drive her a fairly explosive orgasm.

“Same goes for you,” he tells her. 

They finish showering, dry themselves off, get dressed (Daisy in one of his button-down shirts and a pair of his boxers, which makes him want her all over again), then make their way downstairs to the kitchen where he prepares brunch.

They eat it in the rooftop garden, then they sprawl on sun loungers and talk of nothing very important for a time until, eventually, Daisy says, “I’m thinking of going back to singing.”

“That sounds good,” Coulson says, looking over at her. Her expression’s pensive, and she’s got her lower lip caught between her teeth. The sight makes his cock twitch, which is very embarrassing as far as he’s concerned.

She chuckles suddenly, and he raises an eyebrow, wondering what’s amused her. “You’re looking at me like you want to come over here and fuck me until neither one of us can move.”

He blushes, aware that his cheeks are scarlet with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

She climbs off her lounger and steps across to his, and in a moment he finds himself pinned to his lounger by her very welcome weight.

“You’re a bit of a dark horse, Phil,” she observes, and shifts against him so that her sex is pressed against his erection: he’s wearing regular shorts, but no underwear, and she’s still wearing his boxers so he can feel her heat.

“W-why?” he asks, stumbling over the word as she rocks against him.

“So insatiable,” she says in a teasing tone. “It’s very flattering, though.” She grabs his wrists and brings his hands up to her breasts and he cups them over the fabric of his shirt, thumbing her nipples until they’re fully erect. She sits up and unfastens the three shirt buttons that she’d fastened before coming up here, then she leans down, offering one of her breasts to his mouth. He suckles eagerly, greedily almost, and she continues to rock over him until she shudders in what’s obviously an orgasm. That makes him groan and a moment later she gets to her feet and ditches his boxers, then she frees his cock from his shorts and sinks down onto him, riding him fast and hard. 

When he realises he’s close to coming he presses his hand over his mouth to silence his cry of pleasure as he explodes inside her. She continues to ride him for a few more moments, then her orgasm overtakes her, and she soon slumps down on top of him, her inner walls still quivering around his slowly softening cock.

“Fuck, Daisy,” he says hoarsely.

She shifts slightly so she can kiss him, and he groans softly when she tightens her muscles around him. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Of course.”

“Do you like guys as well as girls?”

He raises an eyebrow, hoping that he’s not blushing. “What gave it away?”

She smirks. “Your reaction to me wearing your clothes was a big clue.” She lifts herself so his cock slips out of her. “Plus, you were fairly obvious in your appreciation of me wearing the trouser suit at that press conference.”

“I haven’t been with a man in a long time,” he admits. “I was tempted to start something with Trip when we first met, but then I decided that fucking your employees was a bad move.”

She smirks again. “I can understand why you’d want to, though.”

He’s definitely blushing now, he’s sure. “You don’t mind?” he asks, feeling fairly certain she won’t.

“I’m bisexual too, Phil, so no, I don’t mind.” 

“Good.”

They head back downstairs and after doing the washing up together, Daisy asks if they can visit Hampstead Heath, and he gladly agrees. 

The next few days pass quietly – Daisy seems content to lounge on his sofa, reading his books, or writing songs. At her request he starts teaching her to cook, and they make dinner together. They also have a lot of sex, and Coulson’s embarrassment at how much he wants Daisy quickly disappears when he realises that she really wants him too.

They’re lying in bed together the night before Hunter’s due to return, both of them sated and flushed from some very energetic sex, when Daisy says, “I need to get into a studio.”

“That sounds good,” Coulson says, trying to get his breathing back under control. 

“I should stop hogging all of your time, too. Trip will end up resenting me, otherwise.”

“I don’t think Trip’s capable of resenting anyone,” he tells her. “I think he’s enjoying running my shop. And I enjoy you hogging my time.”

“Yeah?” She rolls onto her side to look at him.

“Of course,” he says firmly. 

“Does that mean – “ She stops, and he gazes at her curiously as she seems to be struggling with something. 

“What?” he asks softly, rolling onto his side and reaching out to cup her cheek with his right hand.

“I wondered if you’d let me always hog your time,” she says, and colour suffuses her cheeks.

He smirks. “I’ve never had a woman propose to me before,” he tells her, feeling just a bit smug. 

“Oh you,” she says, and shoves his shoulder, then climbing over him so that his body is pinned firmly beneath hers. He laughs, a little breathlessly, then wraps his arms and legs around her and rolls them over so she’s pinned beneath him instead.

“I think I must be the luckiest man alive,” he tells her, gazing down at her. She gazes back, her dark eyes full of emotion. Then she grabs the back of his neck and pulls his head down to kiss him greedily.

By the time they finally pull apart to suck in air, Coulson’s hard again, which is beginning to be less of a shock each time, and Daisy reaches for him, sliding her hand down his length and curling her fingers over his balls. He groans, and she smirks as she draws him forward, guiding his rampant erection into her slick heat.

He pauses once he’s buried to the hilt inside her, and she gives him a questioning look. “I would love to marry you,” he tells her. “And let’s make it sooner rather than later.”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “Now fuck me.”

He laughs softly, then begins to thrust. He is, without doubt, the luckiest man alive.


End file.
